THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be eitherthorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, theessentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be tocite for consideration, some few of those minor English or Americanpoems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, haveleft the most definite impression. By minor poems I mean, of course,poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to saya few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whetherrightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my owncritical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. Imaintain that the phrase, a long poem, is simply a flat contradictionin terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch asit excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratioof this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychalnecessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitlea poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout acomposition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at thevery utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconcilingthe critical dictum that the Paradise Lost is to be devoutly admiredthroughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictumwould demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical,only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserveits Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would benecessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternationof excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to betrue poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which nocritical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completingthe work, we read it again, omitting the first book--that is to say,commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now findingthat admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we hadpreviously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is anullity:--and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least verygood reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in animperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancientmodel, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day ofthese artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem_were _popular in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that novery long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measureof its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propositionsufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the QuarterlyReviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractlyconsidered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a volumeis concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from thesesaturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment ofphysical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a senseof the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this _fashion by thematerial grandeur of even The Columbiad. Even the Quarterlies havenot instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have not_insisted _on our estimating Lamar tine by the cubic foot, or Pollockby the pound--but what else are we to _infer _from their continualplating about sustained effort? If, by sustained effort, any littlegentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for theeffort--if this indeed be a thing conk mendable--but let us forbearpraising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that commonsense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Artrather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than bythe time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of sustainedeffort which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. Thefact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--norcan all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, thisproposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be receivedas self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned asfalsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces aprofound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing downof the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerablethings, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been tooimponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, andthus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to bewhistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressinga poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by thefollowing exquisite little Serenade--
I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?-- To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint On the dark the silent stream-- The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on shine, O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O, press it close to shine again, Where it will break at last.
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines--yet no less a poetthan Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and etherealimagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as byhim who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe inthe aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis--the very best in my opinion whichhe has ever written--has no doubt, through this same defect of unduebrevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide-- And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And Honor charm'd the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair-- For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true-- For heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to won, But honor'd well her charms to sell. If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair-- A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail-- 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow From this world's peace to pray For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!-- But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed alway!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who haswritten so many mere verses of society. The lines are not only richlyideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evidentsincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all theother works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixityis indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out ofthe public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeededby a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which,in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to haveaccomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than allits other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _Ithas been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, thatthe ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said,should inculcate a morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of thework to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happyidea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. Wehave taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem'ssake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be toconfess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity andforce:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves tolook into our own souls we should immediately there discover that underthe sun there neither exists nor _can _exist any work more thoroughlydignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per se,_this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written solelyfor the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation.I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.All _that _which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_with which _she _has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her aflaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing atruth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must besimple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In aword, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is theexact converse of the poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who does notperceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and thepoetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemptionwho, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting toreconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obviousdistinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. Iplace Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in themind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme;but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference thatAristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among thevirtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the triomarked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concernsitself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the MoralSense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teachesthe obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself withdisplaying the charms:--waging war upon Vice solely on the ground ofher deformity--her disproportion--her animosity to the fitting, to theappropriate, to the harmonious--in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly asense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight inthe manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which heexists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes ofAmaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetitionof these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments aduplicate source of the light. But this mere repetition is not poetry.He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or withhowever vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, andodors, and colors, and sentiments which greet _him _in common with allmankind--he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There isstill a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. Wehave still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us thecrystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is atonce a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It isthe desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of theBeauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspiredby an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggleby multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Timeto attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhapsappertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted intotears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excessof pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at ourinability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever,those divine and rapturous joys of which _through' _the poem, or_through _the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on thepart of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and_to feel _as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--inPainting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especiallyin Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regardonly to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on thetopic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, inits various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a momentin Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important anadjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will notnow pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhapsthat the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspiredby the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.It _may _be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then,attained in _fact. _We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have beenunfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that inthe union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find thewidest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingershad advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing hisown songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is Taste. Withthe Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or withTruth.
A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at oncethe most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, Imaintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplationof Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurableelevation, or excitement _of the soul, _which we recognize as the PoeticSentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is thesatisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement ofthe heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of thesublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is anobvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directlyas possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough todeny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that theincitements of Passion' or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons ofTruth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for theymay subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes ofthe work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down inproper subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and the realessence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present foryour consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow'sWaif:--
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admiredfor their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.Nothing can be better than--
---------------the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the corridors of Time.
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on thewhole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of thesentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the general manner. Thisease or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashionto regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficultattainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him whoshould never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result ofwriting with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone,_in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind wouldadopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. Theauthor who, after the fashion of The North American Review, shouldbe upon _all _occasions merely quiet, must necessarily upon _many_occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to beconsidered easy or natural than a Cockney exquisite, or than thesleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as theone which he entitles June. I quote only a portion of it:--
There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird.
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me; Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom, Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their soften'd hearts should bear The thoughts of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is--that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.
The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be moremelodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. Theintense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface ofall the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us tothe soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill.The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in theremaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more orless of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how orwhy we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connectedwith all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so fullof brilliancy and spirit as The Health of Edward Coate Pinckney:--
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the flagrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.
It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south.Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have beenranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal whichhas so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conductingthe thing called The North American Review. The poem just cited isespecially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we mustrefer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon hishyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.Boccalini, in his Advertisements from Parnassus, tells us that Zoilusonce presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirablebook:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. Hereplied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _allthe chaff _for his reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by nomeans sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain thatthe true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of anaxiom, which need only be properly _put, _to become self-evident. It is_not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:--and thus topoint out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit thatthey are _not _merits altogether.
Among the Melodies of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguishedcharacter as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out ofview. I allude to his lines beginning--Come, rest in this bosom.The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything inByron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed thatembodies the _all in all _of the divine passion of Love--a sentimentwhich, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:--
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,-- Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, whilegranting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whomno man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The factis, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his otherfaculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, verynaturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there agreater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem moreprofoundly--more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than thelines commencing--I would I were by that dim lake--which are the com.position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularlyfanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His Fair Ines had alwaysfor me an inexpressible charm:--
O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest; She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalltd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, And shootings of the throng; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,-- Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shorel The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!
The Haunted House, by the same author, is one of the truest poems everwritten,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of themost thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. Itis, moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its lengthrenders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of itpermit me to offer the universally appreciated Bridge of Sighs:--
One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;-- Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,-- Over the brink of it, Picture it,--think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can!
Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,--kindly,-- Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.
Perhishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest,-- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!
The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. Theversification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of thefantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity whichis the thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received fromthe critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:--
Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate bath declined Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit bath painted It never bath found but in _thee._
Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of shine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from _thee._
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn-- They may torture, but shall not subdue me-- 'Tis of _thee _that I think--not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,-- Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one-- If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun: And if dearly that error bath cost me, And more than I once could foresee, I have found that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of _thee._
From the wreck of the past, which bath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It bath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._
Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versificationcould scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever engaged the pen ofpoet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himselfentitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains theunwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as thenoblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only avery brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the noblest of poets,_not _because the impressions he produces are at _all _times the mostprofound--_not _because the poetical excitement which he induces is at_all _times the most intense--but because it is at all times the mostethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet isso little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his lastlong poem, The Princess:--
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavoredto convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been mypurpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly andsimply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation ofthe Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul,_quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of theHeart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. Forin regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than toelevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divineEros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus--isunquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And inregard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truthwe are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before,we experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect isreferable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truthwhich merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of whatthe true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elementswhich induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizesthe ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shinein Heaven--in the volutes of the flower--in the clustering of lowshrubberies--in the waving of the grain-fields--in the slanting of talleastern trees--in the blue distance of mountains--in the grouping ofclouds--in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks--in the gleaming ofsilver rivers--in the repose of sequestered lakes--in the star-mirroringdepths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds--in theharp of Bolos--in the sighing of the night-wind--in the repining voiceof the forest--in the surf that complains to the shore--in the freshbreath of the woods--in the scent of the violet--in the voluptuousperfume of the hyacinth--in the suggestive odour that comes to himat eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts--in allunworldly motives--in all holy impulses--in all chivalrous, generous,and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman--inthe grace of her step--in the lustre of her eye--in the melody of hervoice--in her soft laughter, in her sigh--in the harmony of the rustlingof her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments--in herburning enthusiasms--in her gentle charities--in her meek and devotionalendurances--but above all--ah, far above all, he kneels to it--heworships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in thealtogether divine majesty--of her love.
Let me conclude by--the recitation of yet another brief poem--one verydifferent in character from any that I have before quoted. It is byMotherwell, and is called The Song of the Cavalier. With our modernand altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathizewith the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of thepoem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soulof the old cavalier:--
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor call No shrewish teares shall fill your eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand,-- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and poling crye, Our business is like men to fight.